


Hero Worship

by thatonenerdyginger



Category: BioShock
Genre: Deep Sea Porn Ahoy!, M/M, Oral, Past Child Abuse, Prison Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-05 23:19:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11588223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatonenerdyginger/pseuds/thatonenerdyginger
Summary: To be Johnny Topside. Stupid…Then again, who wouldn’t want to be him? Strong. Brave. Defiant. And handsome. Definitely handsome…





	1. Chapter 1

“Ryan’s goons are sweating me to prove this place is a closet commune, but I need time.”

The slow, tedious _drip-drip_ of the leaky pipes in Dionysus Park’s basement provided a background to his speech as Stanley Poole, hunched over the recorder on the desk with a glass of shitty whiskey in one hand, made his monthly entry to Rapture’s audio diary collection. He wasn’t even sure why he was still doing it—Ryan never listened to the damn things, too busy, and he was really just interested in making his quota. Making sure everyone in Rapture contributed to the city’s history. History. What a fuckin’ crock. And yet here he was, in the basement storage, surrounded by the vast ugliness of Sander Cohen’s painting resumé, sitting at the shabby archivist’s desk and recording his own little contribution. Maybe it was out of fear that he kept up the recordings. Fear of Ryan, or fear of disappearing alone and unknown in Lamb’s territory.

Without missing a beat he continued.

“And Lamb's kid"—That stupid fucking kid! As if he didn’t hate human spawn enough!—“keeps staring me down like she knows that I'm a phony.”

Poole stopped the recording so he could take a swill of his drink. Sure, it tasted like flaming piss, but he preferred inebriation to sobriety these days. Especially when it seemed to him that everyone in the whole damn ocean was on his ass. Hell, even being in this basement recording this damn tape was risky business. But it was someone—or something—to talk to, to vent to.

The whiskey in the glass was gone before he knew it, and all that was left was that incessant _dripping_. Poole sat the glass down hard, leaned back in his chair, and thought. After a few moments of respite, and allowing the whiskey to set in, Poole leaned back towards the recorder.

“I keep thinking of Johnny Topside though.”

Poole licked his chapped lips slowly. There wasn’t a day that went by that he didn’t think of Topside. Out of all the folks in Rapture, Poole probably had known him best. After all, he’d gotten to interview the guy a number of times, both outside and inside of the slammer. Among other things.

But his feelings towards his memories of the man were torn. Some days, Poole felt like basking in his memories of Topside. Other days, he hid them away in shame.

“Took real guts to find Rapture like he did...” Poole continued, leaning his head on his hand. “Makes it easier not to crack if I sort of... imagine that I’m him.”

He pressed stop on the recorder, reflecting on how pitiful that sounded. “Imagine that I’m him, what the fuckin’ hell, Stanley? You’re a sad, sad man, you know that?” he berated himself, hardly noticing the slight slur to his words.

To be Johnny Topside. Stupid…

Then again, who wouldn’t want to be him? Strong. Brave. Defiant. And handsome. Definitely handsome…

“It's a good thing I can't tell Lamb about that though,” he continued dryly. “She’d probably say I got a secret need to fall into his arms and make wild whoopee or somethin’!” The laugh he gave at the end of the recording was way too fake, even for a man who’d made fakery his life’s work.

“Shit…” Poole groaned and stared down into his now empty glass. Between the booze and the memory of Topside's face, Poole knew it was going to be one of those basking days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally continuing something I wrote for the Bioshock Kink Meme way back in the day! Sorry I left everyone hanging. I suck at follow-through.
> 
> So, uh, yeah. Here's porn no one but that one anon-poster on the meme asked for.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, shit, he’d done it now. There was no coming back from this one.

Even after spilling his guts to Ryan, telling him everything he knew about Topside—and getting Topside locked up as a result—Poole couldn’t keep away for the only hero Rapture had ever had. The only hero _he’d_ ever had. He had to see him one last time. Ask him a few more things. Apologize maybe? Who knew. All Poole knew was that he had to see Topside again.

It was only after two weeks of pleading with Ryan, trying to convince him that he could get just a little more information out of Topside, that Poole was granted access to the greatest of Rapture’s secrets—Persephone. That dank hole, one of Sinclair’s “solutions” that he’d pitched to Ryan as a home for the weakest links in the Great Chain—and that he’d offered up to Fontaine as a pool of rentable test subjects. Sinclair was a smart bastard, Poole had to give him that, but a bastard above all else. Poole had been paid to keep quiet about Sinclair’s dubious dealings, but it didn’t mean he wiped his brain clean of that knowledge. He knew just what was coming to Topside, so he knew he didn’t have much time left for one last chat.

But there was a catch. Weren’t there always a damn catch in Rapture?

As he stepped out of the air lock and into the foyer at Persephone, shedding parts of the shitty, stinking deep-sea diving suit he’d borrowed to get into the joint, he could see his last conversation with Ryan in his mind’s eye. Ryan—dark, swarthy, and sharp, like some kinda cartoon villain from Poole’s childhood—had leaned over his desk and fixed him with a glare that made his blood run cold.

“I’ll let you enter Persephone on one condition Poole.”

“A-and what’s that, Mr. Ryan?” Poole had tried to keep the stutter out of his voice but, goddamn him, he couldn’t help it! Ryan knew he was a rat to the core, and he made so much as one wrong move, however slight, Ryan wouldn’t hesitate to exterminate him. He was taking a risk just asking for access to Topside. He would have to be even more careful than usual.

“We both know that… _Johnny Topside_ ”—Ryan had ground out the pseudonym between clenched teeth—“is a CIA whore. They’re on to us, looking for us. But we have the upper hand.” Ryan had fixed Poole with a stare again, as if waiting for him to say something. When he stayed quiet, Ryan’s stern expression shifted to a scowl. That look sure as hell helped Poole find his voice again.

“The upper hand? Y’mean Topside?”

Ryan’s expression relaxed some, perhaps pleased that they were on the same page. “Precisely. Go to him, Poole, and see what information you can get out of the adventurous fascist.”

“R-right, you got it Mr. Ryan!” End of conversation, and not a minute too soon. Poole forced himself not to breathe a sigh of relief as he turned for the door.

“And Poole!”

He froze, hand hovering over the doorknob. Ryan’s tone was pure poison, and Poole knew he wasn’t going to like what came next.

“Y-yes, Mr. Ryan?”

“That information had better be good. For your sake.”

Jesus fucking _Christ_ did he regret asking to see Topside now.

The elevator down to Persephone was surprisingly beautiful, all gold, glass, and art deco. Definitely one of Sinclair’s “little touches.” Poole stepped off the elevator, hands crammed nervously in his pockets, stepped through the door, and sidled up to Security Point A forcing himself to look more confident than he felt. The thought of facing Topside after his betrayal—and simultaneously getting Ryan the information he wanted—had him sweating bullets, but he played it cool, gave the guards a smarmy grin, and flashed the visitor’s pass Sinclair had given him on Ryan’s orders. The pot-bellied man behind the security desk squinted, looked over the pass incredulously, up to Poole, and back to the pass.

“Where’d ya get a thing like that?” he asked gruffly.

Poole gave him a peevish snort in return. “From the big guy, Sinclair. Who the fuck else?”

The guard wasn’t impressed. Instead he waved him on towards the guard standing across the lobby. “No bags, no paper, no pens.”

“Yeah, yeah. Thanks…” Poole sauntered over to the escort. “So, you gonna show me where Topside is or what?”

The guard looked him over a moment before speaking up. “Pockets?”

Poole turned them out with casual shrug. Barely even lint in his pockets these days, and no tape recorder either. There was no way he was putting this conversation on the record. The guard gestured for him to raise his arms, and Poole complied, grumbling a little as he was patted down. Satisfied that the journalist wasn’t hiding a gun or an ADAM hypo, the guard stepped back and nodded.

“Right, follow me.”

The two walked silently around the bend into a long, glass-walled corridor that gave Poole a view of the ocean outside. They were deep—way deeper than Poole ever remembered having gone before—and it made his chest feel tight with anxiety. Shit, if anything were ever to go wrong in this place… He pushed the thought out of mind and picked up his pace to join the guard in the—thankfully—walled atrium.

Ever the silent one, the guard looked back at Poole, nodded to the right, and led him towards a small, gated elevator. “Maximum security is down here.”

“Maximum security? You guys really think all that’s necessary?” From what Poole knew of Topside, the guy was peaceful. Strong, but good natured and restrained. The guard just shrugged, held open the door to the elevator, and then joined Poole inside.

None of what he’d seen in Rapture thus far prepared Poole for the fresh hell that was maximum security. The elevator down dropped them in the center of a circular room in the darkest, most miserable place Poole had every laid eyes on. Most of Rapture was damp and dripping, but this place… The area was partially flooded, an inch of water sloshing against his shoes as he got off the elevator. The only light came from three flood lights welded to the circular cage that served as the elevator shaft. The six barred cells that radiated off the circular room were just about pitch black. Any poor bastard down here would have to crowd right up to the bars to get even a glimpse of light. And fucking hell, the SMELL! It smelled like dead fish, low tide, and sweat topped of with _eau de_ festering wound. Poole gagged, looked away, and hoped his escort didn’t notice.

The guard quirked an eyebrow but didn’t mention Poole’s discomfort. Obviously he wasn’t overly fond of this level either. “There he is.” The man pointed a finger at a darkened cell across the way. “Y’got half an hour. I’ll come back down here for ya then.”

Poole nodded weakly in thanks but hardly paid any mind as the guard got back on the elevator and disappeared back to the upper floors. He took a deep breath, composed himself, and shuffled up to the cell.

“Topside?” he called. “Johnny Topside?”

There was no response but Poole could feel a presence there in the darkness.

“Stanley Poole, _Rapture Tribune_. Remember, we had an interview a few weeks ago?”

No response. Poole swallowed hard, looked away for a moment, and then continued.

“Gotta couple more questions for ya, pal. So why don’tcha come into the light”—if the murky glow in front of the cell even qualified as light; it was really just less-black darkness—“an’ talk to me a second?”

The water on the floor rippled, splashed a little with movement, but then went still. He could hear breathing speed up, slow down, and go quiet. The minutes felt like hours as he waited.

“Ain’t gonna take a lot of your time…” _Not like he don’t got the time_. “C’mon, help a guy out, will ya?”

Nothing.

Poole could feel his heart rate pick up, the cold sweat start to drip down his neck. If he didn’t come back with something, he was a dead man. More than that, he’d probably be accused of collusion. He’d be worse than dead then.

“This about that article? About talkin’ to Ryan?” He could hear the panic creeping into his voice, but there was no point in hiding it now. Topside’s silence was literally killing him, but it was also eating at his conscience. How the tables had turned. He’d ratted on Topside, and here the bastard was going to take Poole down with him.

“I had ta do it, man!” Poole continued. He was getting hysterical now. “That guy Ryan—he could have my head on a platter at any damn time. I had to give him the low down on you!”

Silence. Poole stumbled the last few steps to the cells, grabbed at the bars, and forced his face through them as much as he could, praying to see the shadow inside.

“YOU GOTTA FORGIVE ME!”

Finally he heard the water stirring again, sloshing, shuffling footsteps approaching, and suddenly the prisoner’s hot breath was on his face.

“An’ why should I?”

Poole almost jumped out of his skin with how quickly Topside materialized out of the darkness. He was just about nose to nose with the other man now, staring back into those captivating deep blue eyes that damn near took his breath away.

If he wasn’t the most careless bastard under the sea, Topside definitely was one of the handsomest. At around six foot four, he towered over Poole’s scrawny, five foot seven form, so much so that he’d had to hunch to reach Poole’s eye level. He had a square jaw and sharp cheekbones that had only become sharper from his weeks of incarceration. His face was perfectly framed by a wave of blond hair—more dingy than golden now—that fell over his forehead. The man’s once copper skin had grown paler in the absence of sunlight, but he was still far tanner than any other white guy in Rapture. Freckles splattered just about every inch of his skin. Poole followed that endless trail of freckles with his eyes, tracing them across his cheeks, down his powerful neck, across those board shoulders, and down his arms, now covered in scars and wounds, grime and blood. The man’s hands, now gripping the bars just above Poole’s own, were shredded to hell. Whatever they were doing to him down here, he was fighting back with all his might.

Poole swallowed hard and forced himself to face those blue eyes once again. They made him quiver, and Poole wasn’t so sure it was just out of fear and shame. He swallowed, flicked his tongue over his too-dry lips, and ventured a response.

“I didn’t know… Had no idea this is what they’d do…” It might be the most honest thing Poole had said in a long time. He knew Ryan would be interested in the outsider, but Ryan also valued gumption. If nothing else, Topside had that. If he could be vetted, prove he was cut from the same cloth as Rapture’s best and brightest, he’d be offered a place in Ryan’s utopia. But apparently Ryan hadn’t been feeling generous or curious. The bastard seemed to be getting more paranoid by the day. Or maybe this is how Ryan had always been. Poole had just been blind and downright fucking naïve.

_Blinded by your goddamn, childish, hero worship, weren’t you, Stanley, you dumb fuck?!_

Poole shut his eyes tight, took a deep breath, and opened them again. Topside was staring at him, but this time those baby blues were soft, almost sympathetic. His scowl had turned down into a soft frown, his brow furrowed. What the hell was that look for? That’s when Poole realized his last thought wasn’t just an internal monologue.

Fuck. He’d actually said that out loud.

Maybe he should just let Ryan kill him now and save him from that look of pity Topside kept giving him.

“F-fuck, that—” How the hell was he supposed to explain that one? Before he could, Topside cut in with that stupid, gorgeous New England accent—since when did he find that fucking accent so sexy?—of his.

“Y’really had no ideah, didjah?”

Really? That’s what he had to say to that? Poole blinked, tried to jumpstart his brain, but could only shake his head.

Topside leaned back from the bars and sighed, running a hand up into his hair. His expression was hidden in shadow, but Poole had the sinking suspicion that he was still looking at him like some poor fucking kid. That thought twisted knots in his stomach. His hero thought he was that weak, huh? But, then again, Topside was still thinking of him…

There was a moment of silence before Topside spoke up again. “So yeh expect me ta believe yer sahry aftah all that?” He was quiet, conflicted.

“Well ‘m here, ain’t I?!”

“Because you want somethin’.”

The look of distain Topside had fixed him with made Poole’s stomach drop. He’d done a lot of bad things in his life, but this here… This had probably made him feel the worst. Before he could speak up, give some kind of defense, Topside continued.

“That guy, Ryan… He’s been tryin’ ta get somethin’ outta me about the CIA fah weeks.” Topside idly rubbed the wounds running up his arms. Torture, it must have been. “So that’s why he’s sent you down heah, ta have one last shot at me.”

“No,” Poole shook his head. He might have a point but… something else had driven this little visit to hell, long before Ryan’s threats. “No I, I had ta see you… Jus’ one last time…”

An uncomfortable silence settled between them, and Poole could _feel_ those eyes on him, even if he couldn’t see them. He hung his head. That was the fucking lamest thing he could have possibly said—after the hero worship comment, that is—and he just wanted the whole ocean to swallow him up.

“Y-ya had ta know I didn’t mean it… N-never wanted this… I had to say—!”

Poole looked up again and jumped. Topside was there in front of him again, right up against the bars, looking down with that pitiful look on his face. Goddamn, was this guy a bleeding heart, and fuck if Poole wasn’t all the more attracted to him because of it.

“Ta say what…?” Topside asked quietly.

Fuck, he was so close. Poole leaned in and he could feel their chests touch—just barely—through the bars. He was right there, so real, and Poole couldn’t help but want to get even closer. Maybe by touching Topside, just _being_ with him, Poole could assimilate the strength that made Topside twice—even three times—the man he was.

He wasn’t thinking, or maybe he was thinking too much, but before the rational part of his brain could smack him back in line, Poole had leaned up between the bars and crushed his lips against Topside’s.

Well, shit, he’d done it now. There was no coming back from this one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm from Boston and I really just wanted to try out a Bostonian accent on Johnny Topside. I dunno, felt really nautical to me. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ (Comment and let me know if that needs translating.)
> 
> Sorry, I'll get to the porn eventually.


End file.
